


sanctum

by ceraunos



Series: sanctum [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Fluff, London era, M/M, a lot of character exploration and also porn, more classical greek references, platonic james/thomas/miranda, with a vague hint of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 02:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16589165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceraunos/pseuds/ceraunos
Summary: The rush of shocked realisation, like a cool breeze, comes later as James is hesitating on the knife edge of sleep, belated because it is hardly a surprise at all that he thought the word love and meant it.~A big ol' pile of fluff exploring the early days of James and Thomas' relationship.Sort of sequel tosymposiumbut it's not necessary to read that first.





	sanctum

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to [zwergenmaedchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zwergenmaedchen/pseuds/Zwergenmaedchen) and paleanddepressed1 on tumblr for your constant support, this wouldn't have got finished without you x 
> 
> also to zwergenmädchen for your wonderful, patient beta-ing. xx
> 
> this is a sort of sequel to [symposium](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15999191) but it's not necessary to read that one first.

_And so, from such early times, human beings have had love for one another inborn in them... Love, reassembler of our ancient nature, who tries to make one out of two and to heal human nature._  
_\- Plato, The Symposium._  


 

**August 24.**

 

Thomas wakes with a cool breeze on his calves and the cries of gulls and dock men in his ears. He stretches languorously against a bed harder and shorter than he is familiar with, arching into each separate ache. Somehow even the scratch of coarse, thin linens feels luxurious.

He opens his eyes and James is standing before a cracked basin splashing water over his head. In the pale morning light his back is splattered with flecks of gold and if Thomas were more inclined to move at this hour he would like to reach out and explore every freckle individually. The image of James, desperate and writhing under slow, delicate touches drifts unbidden through Thomas’ mind, both desire and a memory. Instead, he contents himself with watching James finish shaving and admires the twist of muscles under his shoulders.

‘Good morning.'

James jumps slightly at his voice.

‘Good morning,’ he replies with a small, warm smile.

‘Tell me honestly, how early is it?’

‘Just after six.’

Thomas groans, his head sinking back into James’ lumpy pillow. James begins dressing, picking his clothes up from around the room where they had been discarded the previous night.

‘Is it always this cold?’

‘Mostly. Although we are almost into autumn now, my lord.’ The odd formality slips over James as his coat does, despite the ridiculousness of it since Thomas is still lying nude in his bed.

Thomas rolls his eyes and James smirks, etiquette mercifully cracking. When Thomas shivers slightly, though, James pulls the window closed and hands him his shirt. Thomas declines to put it on just yet.

‘I’ll ask for a carriage to be sent later?’ James says, a thread of uncertainty lacing his words. They’ve never woken in James’ bed before and the complications are a little harder to explain than at the Hamilton residence where there are plenty of extra beds James could have quite reasonably slept in.  

‘I can walk. I do have legs,’ Thomas says and James raises an eyebrow, ‘or Miranda will work out where I am soon enough and she’ll send someone.’

James leans over the bed and Thomas presumes he’s going to kiss him until he starts overturning the pillows instead. At the tickle of it against his cheek, Thomas realises that James’ hair is still hanging loose over his shoulders. He sits up and shakes the sheet off him, the tar and ribbon falling out as he does.

‘Let me,’ he says, gesturing for James to sit at the edge of the bed. He twists James’ hair into a queue, registering the way James’ shoulders soften the moment he touches his scalp. When he finishes he pulls the hair aside and presses a kiss just above James’ neck cloth, wrapping his arms around James’ chest and pulling him to him; he isn’t ready to let go of this warmth just yet. James sighs and relaxes into him for a moment before gently extracting himself from Thomas’ arms.

‘Sorry,’ he says, kissing Thomas so fleetingly it barely happens. When he turns halfway to the door and sees Thomas kneeling, naked, in the middle of the bed, though, his breath hitches and the hunger in his eyes sends a wash of arousal through Thomas.

‘Will I see you later?’ Thomas asks.

‘Perhaps. These meetings tend to run on though.’

‘Join us for dinner if you can.’ Thomas says, and then, with a forced effort to turn his mind to business, adds: ‘I should like to know what the admiralty think of our work so far.’

‘I shall endeavour to extract myself,’ James says and Thomas blows a kiss at him as he leaves. A deep smile blooms in the creases of James’ eyes as he shuts the door.

~

While he is waiting for Miranda to wake, Thomas eats an apple he finds in one of James’ draws and examines his book collection. Mainly it contains volumes on naval law and history; one in particular has several scraps of paper sticking out from it which, on further inspection, are covered in scrawled writing that Thomas finds almost incomprehensible. A different book has passages underlined in thick pencil and annotations about tactics and maneuvers that suggest this was most likely used as study for James’ lieutenant exam.

Thomas is pleased to find not only his Spanish edition of Don Quixote but alongside it an English copy filled with James’ translations. There are also translations of The Odyssey, Iliad and Aeneid and but nothing in Latin or Greek. Thomas wonders if this is preference or necessity.

James doesn’t make it to dinner and Thomas tries not to be too disappointed.

~

James is bored. He spent his morning drilling hopeless new recruits and the afternoon endlessly discussing minute details of the war with Spain. Now he’s somehow been coerced into taking dinner with Hennessey and a few other members of the admiralty who are, unbelievably, still talking tactics.

Normally, he finds these conversations engrossing or at least useful, but tonight his mind refuses to stop wandering to Thomas. Yet when the subject of Nassau is broached he finds he can remember nothing of what Thomas wanted him to say. Instead, the image of long pale limbs curled around crisp bed sheets floods his mind and he chokes suddenly on his wine. He mumbles a few vague statements he thinks are in Thomas’ latest proposal and wills the image to dissipate. It does not.

He wishes, for the first time, that Commodore Notley were here to blather on about his latest gambling exploits or to try to push yet another daughter onto him. At least that way he would have been able to excuse himself by now.

It’s been three weeks since Thomas kissed him and they’ve spent it living in a glorious golden haze of newness. Through sheer force of will he didn’t know he possessed, he’s kept their discussions of business entirely separate from their passion and yet every time Thomas looks at him something inside James feels as if it is falling endlessly. It leaves a tingling sensation on his tongue and a clamminess on his palms.

Then last night Thomas had turned up outside his door and before James could process the dual shock and déjà vu of it Thomas had been kissing him. When Thomas had finally pulled away, flushed pink and breathless, James’ head had been spinning so much Thomas had had to repeat his greeting.

‘I finished the redraft of our initial proposal,’ Thomas had said, thrusting a rolled up bundle of papers at James. ‘Also we’re going to the theatre, put some clothes on.’

‘Dear God, you’re worse than Miranda,’ James had sighed but pulled on his civilian waistcoat and jacket, belayed only slightly by Thomas’ wandering fingers which had refused to stop touching him.  

Thomas’ coach had been waiting outside and the moment it had started moving Thomas had pushed his knee in between James’ legs and leant over to kiss him, tongue flicking out to taste James’ lips. James had wondered just how much of Miranda’s visit Thomas knew about.

Before James could ask whether Thomas actually intended for them to make it to the theatre, though, the carriage stopped and Thomas had reluctantly sat back. James had refused to analyse the disappointment at not having Thomas’ fingers twisted through his own anymore. The mild swirl of arousal had been simple to understand; this was far more foreign and unexplainable.

Inside the theatre a variety act was trying to make themselves heard over the cries of the crowd. Thomas had led James to an empty box and James had momentarily revelled in the novelty of it. Although he had attended the boxes once or twice with Admiral Hennessey and can afford a gallery ticket himself, James’ first and lasting impression of London theatre was that of being in a riotous crowd who can’t decide if they are fighting or celebrating. Sat with Thomas, James had considered that without the raucousness of the pit the experience was somewhat lacking.

Then Thomas had pressed his thigh against James’ with a warm hand on his knee and James’ heart had momentarily stopped. He had cast a frantic glance around them but all attention had been on the performers and a brawl that had broke out in the pit. Thomas’ hand had crept higher, his fingers digging into the soft skin inside the crease of James’ hip and James’ eyes had closed momentarily, a thick swath of arousal falling over him.

Thomas had kept his fingers there for a long moment until gradually James had become aware of a new song starting up on the stage. He had let out a shaky breath that Thomas must have heard because with it he began to walk his fingers over to the buttons on James’ breaches and then fractionally lower. So lightly he was hardly there, Thomas had traced the length of James’ quickly hardening cock. James, trying desperately to keep his breathing even, had looked at Thomas intending to plead silently for mercy but Thomas had been staring fixedly ahead. With the exception of a gentle flush high on his cheeks and a momentary hitch in his breath when James had tipped his hips up fractionally to press harder against his fingers, Thomas had seemed the picture of impassive.

An urgent ache had pulsed through James, knotting tightly in his stomach and only building. With a final glance around them, he had swallowed instinct and groaned gently under his breath, close enough to Thomas that he, but only he, would hear it. Thomas’ eyes had snapped to his, his lips parted and dry.

‘Let’s leave,’ Thomas had murmured, taking his fingers away from James. It had taken a few long minutes and several steadying breaths before either of them had stood, however.

Somehow, and James is still not entirely sure how it happened, they had ended up sending Thomas’ carriage home under the pretence of them attending the fair and had walked the fifteen minutes to James’ residence rather than drive an extra twenty to Thomas’. Thomas had kept shooting long glances at James’ lips and despite the cool of the autumn night air James’ skin had felt hot and crawling with anticipation.

When Miranda had visited his residence, James had been starkly aware of the peeling paint and distinctly lacking furnishings. He had also been aware of the poorly concealed surprise on Miranda’s face. Thomas, however, had said nothing about the condition of James’ home and seemed entirely unaffected about it. James wonders if Miranda had forewarned him about the difference in their circumstances or whether Thomas is simply more conscious of how little a lieutenant actually earns.

Then Thomas had clicked the door shut and James had forgotten where they were entirely; they could have been in Spain and he would still have only cared about the slick warmth of Thomas’ skin and the slow, desperately tender way he had fucked James for the first time.

And now James is sat at dinner pretending to be interested in whatever the fuck Admiral Beddows is talking about and trying not to shift too obviously in his seat to redirect a very particular ache. He is also resolutely not thinking about the unfamiliar growth that has been blossoming in his chest all day, or the way it fits the name of Thomas.

 

**August 28.**

 

‘Lieutenant. What a pleasant surprise,’ Miranda greets him, her shoes clicking softly on the parlour floor. ‘Really, James, it’s ridiculous that you still stand for me, sit down.’

‘I apologise for the intrusion; I can leave if this is poor timing?’

‘Nonsense, Thomas is entertaining an old school friend but I expect he’ll be gone soon.’ Miranda pulls her armchair closer to James’ and leans towards James conspiratorially. ‘Most of these Old Etonians are only tolerable in very small doses.’

James wonders, briefly, what an appropriate response would be, but then Miranda winks at him with warm humour and James finds himself chuckling.

‘I have often thought the same. Thomas seems to be the one exception,’ he adds and he can feel his cheeks heating at Miranda’s soft, knowing smile. ‘This really isn’t urgent, though. I’ve only come to pass on a message from the Admiralty. I can return later.’

‘Stay and I can finally have you to myself for a while.’

~

James is ready to throw the whole jigsaw at the wall. He’s a bloody Navy man; he’s seen a thousand different maps in his life, it shouldn’t be this hard to locate the boot of Italy.

‘It isn’t here,’ he mutters for the fifth time, as Miranda slots yet another piece in with ease. Miranda just laughs. ‘This is ridiculous. You surely don’t enjoy these things?’

‘Not particularly. I do enjoy watching your frustration, though.’  

‘You are a cruel and malicious woman.’

Miranda kisses his cheek lightly.

‘Who’s being cruel? What are you doing to my poor lieutenant?’ The door clicks closed behind Thomas. He bends to kiss Miranda and then James before flopping into the nearest armchair, sliding his wig off and discarding it to the floor.

‘It appears the lieutenant isn’t overly fond of your jigsaw. He’s finding it rather taxing.’

‘The piece is definitely missing!’ James splutters, causing Thomas to snort in a distinctly undignified way. ‘Wait -’ James says, realising what Miranda has said, ‘this is yours?’

Thomas leans over and wraps his hand around James’, pressing a soft kiss to his wrist. ‘I find mindless activities often help me think.’

‘The master of irony,’ Miranda says. ‘How was Davis?’

Thomas groans, sliding deeper into his chair. ‘Outstandingly dull. Every time I see one of them I think it can’t be as insufferable as I remember and every time I am wrong.’

‘I do try to warn you, darling.’

‘And as always I should have listened to you more. To make matters worse he’s insisted we all go to the fair together this evening.’

‘Why didn’t you tell him you were otherwise engaged with the lieutenant?’

‘I did, he simply invited James along too.’ Thomas turns to James. ‘You’re invited to the fair. You don’t have to come.’

‘No, I’ll join you,’ James says. ‘Only because we never made it there the other night,’ he adds for the thrill of seeing Thomas blush right up to his hairline. ‘I do have some business we ought to discuss first, though.’

‘Oh?’ Thomas says, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously.

‘Actual business, you nuisance.’ James sighs, swatting at Thomas wandering fingers.

They end up in Thomas’ bed anyway, James splayed out under him while Thomas works both their cocks, James’ hips sliding up against him frantically with every twist.

~

‘You really don’t have to come,’ Thomas says as they leave the house. James suddenly wants to make a very immature joke about Thomas not saying the same thing an hour ago and, judging by the mischievous glint in Thomas’ eyes and the twitch of his lips, he is thinking the same thing.

Miranda hits both of them on the back of their heads. ‘Anyone would think you were school boys again.’ Thomas and James pull matching faces of sobriety. ‘Although you really should pull out now, James.’

Thomas manages a whole two seconds before making eye contact with James and crumpling in laughter. James can feel tears prick at the corner of his eyes as his false composure also cracks, Thomas bent double giggling and gasping for breath next to him.

‘The height of childishness,’ Miranda chastises, striding towards the carriage. The smirk on her face suggests she knew exactly what she was doing, though. James marvels at the fact somehow, impossibly, he is allowed to know these two remarkable people.

~

Bartholomew fair is a ruckus of activity, even for the final evening. It is a vibrant chaos bringing together the best and worst of London and James desperately wishes he were part of the throng outside in the madness of it all. Instead, Lord Davis, who is exactly as tedious as he had been made out to be, has brought them to a small canvas tent on the outskirts of the fair with nothing but the stiffest members of parliament for company.

A cacophony of cheering filters through the thin canvas of the tent and James takes another large swig of spiced port. He wonders whether getting very drunk will make the chances of him punching Davis greater or less. He thinks at least he’ll care less about the consequences when he does.

Davis has monopolised Thomas from the moment they had arrived, immediately beginning an argument about dangers of the rise of a middle class, despite clearly knowing very little about the topic. The more Davis continues to present poorly thought out points the more Thomas begins to pepper his responses with comments clearly above Davis’ intellect until the man is trying to counter argue jokes and laughing at serious statements. James would consider it cruel except that Davis is entirely the cause of his own ridicule.

By their fourth glass of wine, Miranda leans over to James and begins whispering her own commentary to Davis’ failing conversation. James has to press the back of his hand hard against his teeth to stop a snort of laughter.

‘You know he’s an absolute leach,’ Miranda whispers once they’ve both recovered. ‘The fourth son of a minor baron with nothing to inherit. It started at school with Thomas’ brother and when he wasn’t interested in befriending him Davis simply latched straight onto Thomas instead. He’s been unshakable every since apparently.’ James wonders if that explains some of the odd, intense looks he’s been giving Thomas all night. James’ stomach clenches at the thought of it.

‘Do you know, I saw your brother, the viscount, last month,’ Davis drawls as if on cue.

‘Oh?’ Thomas says, sounding entirely uninterested.

‘I was staying with Ashborne at his property in Shropshire - you know the one.’

Thomas nods vaguely. James wonders if he’s even listening still.

‘In any case, Hawkins passed through one evening, oh about two weeks in, and said we really must join him for the hunt at his estate the next day. Well you’ll never guess who was part of his party.’

‘Mm?’ Thomas definitely isn’t listening. His eyes keep sliding to the doorway where flashes of fire are appearing followed by loud gasps.

‘Your brother!’

‘How nice.’

‘Yes it was rather. Do you see much of him these days?’

‘Hmm?’ Thomas says, jolting out of his glazed look.

‘Your brother. I imagine he’s rather busy.’

‘Lord Davis,’ Miranda suddenly cuts in. ‘I’m feeling rather tired. Would you accompany me home? I know the lieutenant and my husband still have a few matters to discuss before the evening is out.’

‘Oh! Well of course.’ He stands and Miranda loops her arm around his firmly. ‘If that’s alright with you Thomas?’

‘By all means. Goodnight darling.’ Thomas leans in to kiss Miranda’s cheek and James hears him whisper ‘You’re a saint, thank you,’ to her.

Holles shakes Thomas’ hand with a grip so limp James can’t work out how Thomas keeps hold of him. ‘It was good to see you Thomas. We should do this again.’

‘Likewise. It’s been a pleasure,’ Thomas says, suddenly the image of courtesy and hospitality. Holles nods at James and then Miranda turns and pulls, ever so subtly, on his arm and they are gone. Thomas sighs deeply and James’ body echoes his relief, his jaw finally relaxing.

‘Dear God, you’re actually friends with him?’

‘He was a few years older than me at school.’ Thomas leans in close and James shivers at the feel of it. ‘I once made a very poor decision involving him and my mouth and I have been regretting it ever since.’

James blanches and his horrified expression is only half for comedic effect. Thomas laughs.

‘I am glad to say I have made much better choices in recent times,’ he says, pressing the back of his hand to James’. James’ heart flutters ridiculously.

‘Are you hungry?’ he says, hoping to distract himself from the warmth creeping through his veins at such a simple statement.

‘For what?’ Thomas stares at him intently and the warmth turns into a rush of hot arousal pooling in his stomach.

‘You are insatiable,’ James says, trying for light hearted but his voice has suddenly dropped an inch and he sees Thomas bite at his lower lip briefly.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

‘I actually would like a little food,’ Thomas concedes eventually and James thinks he should be disappointed but instead the only emotion in him is an overwhelming fondness that threatens to terrify him if he thinks about it too much.

They spend a good hour wandering through the fair; James is fascinated by a man eating fire while dancing on a tightrope and Thomas insists they go back to see a painted elephant three times. He pays for James to have his palm read, much against James’ protestations and their joint scepticism. The lady, who is definitely faking her accent, declares that amongst great sadness James will be sustained by a greater love. James blushes red and hot and Thomas prods him playfully in his ribs. Then he drags James into the shadows behind a tent and kisses him swiftly.

‘A great love, huh?’

‘She wasn’t even a real gypsy,’ James jokes and he hopes Thomas won’t press the topic. He does kiss him back, though, deep and long enough to hold a promise for later.

Thomas buys them so many sweetmeats, nuts and gingerbread biscuits that they end up giving most of it to street children loitering by the stands. When they stop for pork buns James asks for two extra to give to the small crowd that’s started to follow them at a short distance. Thomas finds a small wooden puppet whose arms move at a pull of a string and gets it for Miranda along with a roll of interestingly patterned cloth, although he admits to James he has no idea what she will do with it.

Before they leave, Thomas coaxes James onto a swing boat with the promise of another drink at the end of it, despite James’ head already feeling distinctly blurry. James feels ridiculous, standing out in his navy uniform like a performance act himself. When he looks opposite him, though, and sees Thomas’ flushed cheeks and wide, laughing expression his breath catches in his chest and the way they look doesn’t seem half as important anymore. Then the boat catches a gust of wind and Thomas has to reach up fast to stop his wig blowing away and laughter from both of them drifts away of the breeze.

~

Thomas presses his feet into the crease behind James’ knees and the way James leans back into his chest means he’s still awake. James’ bed creaks with every shuffling movement. Thomas presses a kiss into his hair, trying to work out the most diplomatic way to say what he wants to ask.

‘Do you read Latin?’ he murmurs, reaching around James to trace patterns through the thin golden hair on his chest. James’ upbringing is a topic they’ve both silently agreed to skirt around after their first meeting.

‘A little,’ James says after a moment. ‘Not particularly well, though. There wasn’t much need of for it in a Cornish fishing village. Why?’

‘All your books are in English.’

‘Convenience. Why waste time translating something if it already exists in an easier language?’

‘Every translator adapts a text with their own interpretation, no matter how pure his intentions to the original are.’

‘Believe me, the original is hardly pure by the time I’ve guessed my way through it.’ There’s a gentle self-deprecation in James’ voice but Thomas recognises the slightest hint of actual insecurity behind it and he drops the subject.

‘Speaking of purity…’ he says low into James’ ear, hitching his leg over James’ hip and trailing his hand down his stomach. James shudders full-bodily in his arms. They’ve both come twice already tonight and yet when Thomas reaches James’ cock it’s already stirring with renewed interest. James’ hole is still loose and wet and when Thomas slides two fingers in with ease James keens, pressing back against him desperately. Keeping his fingers in place as best he can, Thomas turns James to face him, marvelling at his open, wanting expression. He kisses him deeply, lazily circling his fingers inside James. When he hits the spot that causes James to shout out on a sudden inhalation, he runs his fingers over it once, twice more and then pulls out entirely. James whines at the loss of contact, rolling his hips backward to try and follow Thomas, his fingers scrabbling at the bed sheets.

Thomas kisses him gently, smoothing his hand over James’ forehead and brushing the sweat-drenched hairs away from it. Then he rearranges them both again and puts his mouth on James’ hole, tongue flicking out to dance around the rim before pushing inside.

‘Fuck,’ James exhales, his thighs tensing around Thomas’ shoulders. Thomas runs his hands up and down James’ sides while James’ fingers tangle in Thomas’ short hair and scratch at his scalp in a way that James knows makes him shiver all the way down to his toes. He moans against James’ skin and James presses into him, encouraging him to lick further into him. He can taste his own bitterness inside James and, below that, a silky mustiness that is entirely James.

Once James is wet with his spit, Thomas adds his fingers back in alongside his tongue, exploring and twisting inside him until James is shaking with need, moans spilling from him in continuous waves.

‘Please Thomas. I need,’ he manages to say, reaching out to wrap a hand around Thomas’ cock. He is achingly hard already, leaking slightly onto his own stomach, and won’t last long if James continues teasing the skin around his tip as he is doing.

‘It’s alright,’ he says, threading his fingers through James’ and taking his hand off his cock. ‘I know.’

He lines himself up with James’ entrance and pushed into him in one long, slow movement. Thomas’ head tips back at the tight, hot, slick sensation and they moan jointly before beginning to move in a rhythm not quite yet perfected. It is enough, though, and before long Thomas can feel the familiar pull building in the pit of his stomach. His toes curl and he grips James’ hand, his other hand leaving nail indents on James’ thigh. James too is tensing, his eyes fluttering shut. He brings Thomas’ hand to his cock and with a couple of quick strokes he is coming into Thomas’ hand. Thomas fucks him through it and with three, four more thrusts, each deeper than the last before he finally releases into James, a static rush surging through him.

He collapses onto James’ chest and they lie, stuck together in sweat, for a moment, both catching their breath. Then James laughs once, so soft it almost doesn’t exist and Thomas replies in kind, exhausted and elated.

‘Thank you,’ James says, kissing Thomas sweetly. Thomas runs his hand over James’ hair and eases himself away slowly, kissing away James’ mournful whimper as he slips out of him. When he returns a moment later with a damp cloth James’ eyes are already half closed and he hums sleepily as Thomas wipes the cloth over him. Thomas kisses his temple and climbs back into bed next to him, listening as his breathing turns deep and slow.

~

Thomas lies awake long after James’ breaths have turned into soft, irregular snores. The restless shuffling of his mind is something he has long since learned to live with and normally he utilises these lost hours as best he can, hunched over a book and candle. Tonight, though, he curls into James’ frame and lets his mind wander, drifting in half sleep yet anchored by James’ occasional stirrings.

Thomas has always fallen in love easily. At first with nannies and nursemaids then tutors who taught him to read and write. At fourteen he had spent months loving a beautiful boy who sat on the other side of the classroom and never looked at him twice. At seventeen a young schoolmaster had praised his work with a wink and Thomas’ heart had been lost for the rest of the half. A year later he had begun at Oxford and fallen into a heady affair with a fellow student that only ended when the man was sent down for getting a professor’s daughter pregnant. It is the only one of his loves which Thomas truly regrets.

He has often fallen out of love easily, too. First with the nursemaid who took his blanket away and with the nanny who refused to read to him at night. Then with a tutor who rapped his knuckles too hard and too frequently. Later it was with boys who were needlessly cruel and men who refused to listen to reason. If ever he had loved his father, Thomas must have lost that before he can remember.

Then he had met Miranda and learnt a new kind of love, one formed of friendship and compassion and grown into a sparklingly vibrant, all encompassing companionship. Now, James is something different again. It is as if, upon meeting him, James had opened out his hands and offered Thomas a part of himself he never knew was missing; James is something else entirely.

Thomas is not blind to James’ hesitation, though; he had seen the way James had laughed with a tightness on his lips at his palm’s prediction. He is starkly aware that James hasn’t ever initiated intimacy between them, and although he would like to put it down to propriety he fears there is it something greater at odds within James. Thomas sighs and James turns in his sleep, tucking himself into Thomas’ elbow, and Thomas lets worry wash away into the night as a steady drip of rain begins at the window.

 

**August 29.**

 

James wakes all at once. Thomas trails a finger across his cheek and loosely twirls a strand of long, auburn hair around his finger. It’s unusual for him to rise earlier than James, but on the rare occasion that he does he loves to watch this moment in fascination, as slack-browed sleep transforms into sharp, bright alertness with a single blink.

James hums in greeting, smiling gently at Thomas. Then he grimaces and sticks his tongue out, his eyes squeezing shut against the bright morning light.

‘Ack.’ He groans in disgust. Thomas smiles and kisses his cheek, slipping out of bed to pour a glass of water from the jug James keeps on his desk. James sips cautiously and then downs the rest of the glass, swirling the last of it around his teeth and spitting it back out.

‘Ugh. What was in that wine?’ he says and Thomas pats his head.

‘They don’t water it down for the gentry’s tent like they do on the regular stalls.’

James scowls and then squints at Thomas. ‘I have to piss.’ He clambers somewhat reluctantly over Thomas and hunts under the bed for the chamber pot. ‘Why have I never seen you drunk, then?’ he asks, his back to Thomas.

‘Perhaps I’m more careful about how many glasses I have in one go,’ Thomas says and he can hear the smirk in his own voice.

‘God, he was so boring, though.’ James climbs back into bed and pulls the sheets all the way up to his chin, closing his eyes. ‘Anyway, I’m a sailor. It’s practically my duty to drink as much as possible when I’m not paying for it.’

‘Mm.’ Thomas hums, running a hand through James’ hair. James smiles sleepily, eyes still closed. Outside church bells sound and Thomas feels a trickle of guilt pass through him. ‘What does the E stand for?’ he says after a long period of quiet.

‘Hmm?’

‘On your bag, J. E. McGraw.’

‘Oh. Edward. It was my grandfather’s name.’

‘James Edward McGraw.’ Thomas plays with the way it rolls of his tongue in three tumbling circles. ‘It’s lovely.’

‘It’s a name.’ James shrugs, sitting up in bed slightly. He doesn’t look at Thomas as he continues. ‘I thought about going by Edward after my grandfather died but too many people knew me as James. There was already a reputation attached to that name.’

‘Tell me about him?’ Thomas says and he knows he is pushing his luck. Perhaps there is something about the slow morning light or the lingering cloud of sleep, though, because James does turn to him with a new light in his eyes and begin to speak.

‘You would have liked him. He was very opinionated, he’d argue until those around him either started a riot or got bored and left. He spoke the old language first and only bothered to learn English when he started as a ship’s boy. He wasn’t clever in the way we think of it, he never learnt to read or write, but his mind was always, until the last days, quick and true. He was the one who made sure I had an education of sorts.’

‘He sounds wonderful.’

‘He used to drink too much. They’d bring him home to me and he’d be angry until he wasn’t anymore, but when he wasn’t he’d tell the most fantastic stories of the sea, although I never knew if they were really true.’

Thomas lies his head on James’ shoulder and wraps his hands between his own. He feels James’ chest rise as he takes a deep, long breath before he starts talking again.

‘He fell from the rigging when he was about my age and his back never set right afterwards. He kept at sea for a few more years but after my mother was born he set up shop as a toy maker and carpenter. It never made enough money but it kept him from the drink for a long while, until the pain of his back was too much.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ Thomas says lamely. He hears James swallow thickly, sees him judge his next words carefully.

‘I wasn’t the easiest child to look after. I inherited everything of my father’s fury and used to disappear for days only to come home black and blue and bloody. It wasn’t just from scraps with village boys, either. On those days my Grandfather would take me out in his ramshackle dingy and we’d sit for hours amongst the waves only for him to tell me to never settle for a life at sea. He wanted me to make something of myself, instead.’ James smiles lopsidedly at Thomas. ‘I often wonder what he would think of me now, doing both at once.’

Thomas smiles and the mixture of sadness and warmth in his chest feels like it is going to suffocate him. ‘He’d be proud, I imagine.’

‘There was salt in his bones and I think he always knew it was in mine too. He’d most likely roll his eyes at the fact I’m still obstinately contrary.’  

Thomas laughs but there are tears at the corner of his eyes. He doesn’t want to ask, but he feels he knows too much not to, now. ‘How… When did he die?’

‘I was eleven. His back, the drink, something else. I never really knew. Two months later my mother drowned herself. Not long after that I tried to join Hennessey’s crew for the first time.’

Thomas blinks and he can feel wetness roll down his face. James, who has remained entirely unaffected, as if he were telling another person’s history this whole time, brushes it away.

‘Don’t,’ he says and grins unexpectedly. ‘Do you know, he never once cut his beard in the entire time I knew him. Underneath it he probably looked a lot like me.’

Thomas smiles wetly, wiping at his cheeks, and kisses James with a slow tenderness that builds, aching from somewhere deep inside him. James cradles his face as if he is the one who needs comfort but Thomas can feel him sinking, relieved into him.

After a while James extracts himself from Thomas’ arms and wanders over to his bookshelves. He pulls out a tattered, faded book that Thomas recognises as an old edition of The Odyssey.

‘He bought this for me, towards the end. I already knew the story in a manner, he’d told hundreds approximations of it over the years. Each version would be different, but there were always monsters and there were always gods and at the end of it all the sea always won anyway.’

~

They stay in bed, curled around each other and touching lazily, until the second set of church bells ring and Thomas’ stomach growls noisily. James laughs and places a kiss on his belly.

‘Alright. Time for breakfast,’ he says, knowing full well it’s already noon.

They dress slowly and distractedly, putting layers on only for them to be slyly removed again by wandering fingers. When they do eventually make it out of the door the lingering hushed melancholy that’s been sitting around them dissipates into fresh air. There’s a rawness about James’ mind still though, for having spoken something so personal, with such potential for future harm, into the daylight. Yet the world hasn’t ended, the carriages continue to roll by, street hawkers shout their wears with familiar voices and Thomas still stands by him. James wonders what else he might, in time, be comfortable to talk about and although the idea grips his chest with tight fear, there’s a ghost of anticipation in the feeling too.

They slip into a tiny side street bakery James hadn’t expected to be open, despite Thomas’ insistences, and the owner, a small man with a thick mess of black hair, recognises Thomas immediately. He could be of a similar age to James or he could be twenty years older and in the dim light of the shop James really can’t tell.

‘My Lord! It is good to see you; it has been a long time,’ he says, with an accent James can’t quite place.

‘I’ve been busy, Matsas,’ Thomas answers familiarly.

‘Hm. When you are busy you normally come here. Perhaps you have found a new friend, though, I see.’ Thomas chuckles and claps Matsas on the shoulder. James reels in the unusualness of it all.

‘You know you are without parallel. This is Lieutenant James McGraw,’ Thomas says and the man shakes James’ hand firmly. James is inexplicably trying to fight down a flicker of something that absolutely does not feel like jealousy.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ Mastas says, gesturing to a tiny table in the corner. ‘You will have the usual, yes?’

‘Please.’

‘And for your Navy friend?’ Mastas raises his eyebrows fractionally as he says friend and James’ heart stops with a thud.

‘Surprise him,’ Thomas says, seeming unaffected by Mastas’ implication. James wonders if he’s overreacting, still on edge from earlier.

Matsas disappears into a back room and Thomas reaches over the table to rest his fingers on the back of James’ hand, rubbing his thumb over his knuckles. James recoils as if he has been stung, his heart starting again only to thrum frantically in his chest. He stares at Thomas with what he imagines is a wild expression. Thomas pulls James’ hand back onto the table and continues touching him.

‘It’s alright. He won’t mind,’ he says. James blinks, confused and still a little panicked. He trusts Thomas but he also knows he likes to believe the world a kinder place than it actually is. ‘He’s like us,’ Thomas clarifies. James understands and then he understands again and what should be reassuring turns into a possibility he doesn’t want to consider.

‘Did you and he…?’ James trails off, unwilling to think further into the issue. He knows, logically, that Thomas is far more experienced than he is in these things and yet to be faced with it so directly is like being hit by a storm wave.

‘No. I caught him trying to rob me a few years back. I helped him secure this building and he pays me back in pastries and good conversation.’ The relief is so palpable that James finds himself sighing and laughing at the same time. Of course Thomas would make friends with his thief.

Matsas reappears with arms full of delicacies and James fights to not withdraw his hand from the reassuring warmth of Thomas’. Matsas barely bats an eye at their linked fingers, although he does give Thomas a quick wink, at which Thomas turns a deep red and ducks his head slightly.

The coffee is so dark and bitter it would be undrinkable except for the tooth-rotting sweetness of the pastry Thomas feeds him in the same mouthful.

‘You have to eat them together,’ Thomas says, dipping a pastry into his coffee.

‘He is wrong and that is bad,’ Mastas scolds from the other side of the counter. ‘You eat cake first, then coffee. It is refreshing.’ James tries, it is still like drinking tar. Without the influence of coffee, though, James vaguely recognises taste of the pastries. They are almost similar to something he once found in a Spanish port years ago.

‘Where are you from Mastas?’

‘Right here.’ Mastas spreads his arms with a smile that says he knows he is being facetious. Thomas pushes another piece of pastry into James’ mouth and James is temporarily distracted by the feel of Thomas’ fingers against his lips. He flushes hot under his neck cloth, momentarily fascinated and equally disbelieving that this is happening outside of a locked door. He feels bizarrely free, in a dreamlike way.

They spend several hours in Mastas’ shop, long after the pastries have disappeared and Mastas has produced a sweet, sticky wine instead. It turns out Mastas is half a Sephardic Jew, half Greek Orthodox Christian and entirely neither of those things at all. He is, however, a wonderful storyteller and regales Thomas and James with tales of his youth that become increasingly absurd and less probable the more wine he drinks. James’ hand remains firmly in Thomas’ the entire time, their knees bumping under the table, and a contented warmth settles in James’ stomach at the thought of it.

When they finally leave, Mastas pulls Thomas to one side and whispers, or tries to whisper, in his ear. He is quite possibly a little drunk, though, and James can’t help but overhear.

‘You are happy. He is good for you,’ Mastas asks, but it isn’t really a question.

‘Yes,’ James thinks he hears Thomas say very softly.

‘Good. It is a long time coming. You keep this one, he is special I think.’

‘You have had too much wine too early in the day my friend,’ Thomas says, but there is a deep sincerity to his smile and James’ breath stutters to see it.

‘Be safe,’ Mastas calls as they step outside and even through his cheerful wave there is a sincere caution to his voice.

~

James’ room feels oddly empty and very small when he returns without Thomas and the gold soaked contentedness of earlier threatens to drain away into grey anxiety, a vague feeling of uneasiness grasping at him. He closes his eyes and remembers the feeling of Thomas fingers on his and tries not to think of the infinite potential for loss.

There is something impossible in the way Thomas has become intricately part of him, woven into every question, every reason and answer. It is as terrifying as it is thrilling and to let this feeling free, to give in and let it rule him, would be to shatter every flood defence James has ever built. He isn’t sure he is ready for that, isn’t sure how he would do it, anyway.

_ ‘Be still my heart; thou hast known worse than this.’ _

James’ battered copy of The Odyssey still lies on the pillow where Thomas had placed it, almost reverently, earlier, and yet the words drift unbidden into his mind anyway. It takes him a moment to place them and even when he does there is by no means a correlation between Odysseus’ heartbreak at returning to Ithaca to find his home overrun by whores and suitors and the cloying ball of tightness that’s grown to live in his own chest whenever he thinks of Thomas. Still, it feels apt; like Odysseus, he has known hardship far more than love but it is that which threatens to overpower him.

The rush of shocked realisation, like a cool breeze, comes later as James is hesitating on the knife edge of sleep, belated because it is hardly a surprise at all that he thought the word love and meant it.

 

**September 10.**

 

Thomas doesn’t see James for over a week, and when he eventually does they’re so pre-occupied with business that they spend the whole afternoon at Thomas’ desk arguing. The first whispers of a possible voyage to Nassau, planted carefully by James, are starting to spark interest within the admiralty and Thomas is insistent that he wants to be a part of it. James has so far refused vehemently with such passion it could be real fury. Thomas wonders if James even knows why he’s so opposed to letting Thomas go to Nassau yet.

It doesn’t help their fraught tempers that Thomas hasn’t slept properly since the last time he shared a bed with James and both the implications and physical exhaustion of that have him feeling frayed at best. Two nights earlier he had crawled in with Miranda in the hope that it was just a warm body he was missing but the early hours had still seen him pacing the library anyway. Three months is starting to feel like a very long time.

By the time there is a call for dinner, Thomas is ready to knock his head against the wall and James has bitten the skin on his knuckles raw. Thomas sighs and puts down the papers they’ve been looking at, tucking them out sight into a draw for now. The furrow of confusion he gets when James begins to pull on his coat is nothing compared to the confusion on James’ face when Thomas catches his wrist and stops him.

‘Where are you going?’ he says, knowing he won’t get an answer. ‘Stay. Please.’ There’s a tightness around his ribs that, if he didn’t know better, feels like the precursor to sorrow. He sighs deeply, pressing his fingers to the corners of his eyes and feels himself sway slightly on his feet. In his arms, James pulls back, concern marring his expression.

‘Thomas?’

‘Stay for dinner?’

‘I’m on duty in the morning. They won’t have set a place for –’ James starts and then stops, shaking his head, and Thomas can see the moment he changes his mind in the softening of his shoulders. ‘Alright.’

Thomas kisses him lightly on hinge of his jaw. ‘I’m sorry for being so stubborn.’

‘It’s only work,’ James says and although there’s still a hard undertone to his voice he removes the wig Thomas has just put on and runs a hand through his hair. When he kisses him Thomas thinks he is probably forgiven, at least for today.

‘They always set a place for you. Even when you’re not here,’ Thomas says as an afterthought and even though he knows he should be more concerned about that than he is, he can’t bring himself to be anything but pleased.  

~

As they sit for dinner Miranda gives James a look Thomas can’t decipher. After a moment of silent communication between them, though, she shoots Thomas a stern, pointed expression he knows only too well – the one that tells him he’s probably overstepped the mark of being overly opinionated somewhere. He bows his head, chastised, and although there’s a small part of him that feels it’s very unfair James and Miranda are in league about these kinds of things now, he knows he brought it on himself.

‘Will you play cards later, James?’ Miranda asks and Thomas sees the hesitation in James’ response, his whole figure seeming to tense before speaking. He understands it, too; they’ve only agreed a truce as far as dinner is concerned, nothing has been said about afterwards. Besides, the whole reason they’ve seen so little of each other is that James is on duty early in the mornings at the moment, which makes everything difficult.

‘I- alright,’ James says and Thomas barely keeps his sigh of relief inaudible. Miranda smiles and kicks gently at Thomas’ ankle. Thomas wonders whether she would prefer a book of music or literature as a thank you and then decides she deserves both.

~

After dinner Thomas disappears for a long moment to tidy his study and by the time he reappears with a much clearer head Miranda and James are hunched over the cards table in quiet competition. Thomas leans over James’ shoulder until he realises he has no idea what they’re playing and settles at his feet instead. He opens a book with every intention of reading except he only manages a few pages before his eyes are fluttering closed between each word, the warmth of the fire and the soft, concentrated chatter from Miranda and James like a heavy blanket settling over him.

He wakes to James’ knees shifting behind his head and a hand on his cheek. When he tips his head back and opens his eyes James is bent over him. He blinks slowly and feels James press a paper light kiss to his forehead.

‘It’s late. I should leave,’ James murmurs and tendrils of panic immediately grip Thomas.

‘Please don’t,’ Thomas says, ignoring the fuzzy sleepy feeling on his tongue. He knows, in his semi-conscious state, he sounds more like he is begging than he would like. James doesn’t say anything though, only nods and helps Thomas to his feet, half guiding him towards the stairs. He wishes he had the energy to do more than just kiss James as he pulls the sheets over them and curls around him.

Thomas sleeps through the entire night and, although the bed is empty next to him when he wakes, it is warm to touch and he smiles into the pillow that still smells a little like James.

 

**September 13.**

 

‘Thomas?’ James shouts, barely through the door and not bothering to stop for the footman who is trying to take his coat and ask his business. Thomas spares a thought of pity for the poor man only trying to do his job as he hurries down the final set of stairs, sans wig, necktie and waistcoat. His shirt gapes open at his chest and he knows the litter of fading purplish marks there must be visible.

‘James.’ Thomas jumps the last two steps in his haste. James is almost vibrating under his touch when he puts a hand on his shoulder. There’s a horrible sickening feeling only just starting to build in Thomas’ stomach, James’ distress triggering an instinctual reaction. Thomas recognises he is naïve in pretending the worst won’t ever happen except it would be impossible to sustain the level of fear he knows now and still survive.

‘What’s going on? I’ve been discharged of all my duties.’ The relief leaves Thomas dizzy, a cold light-headedness turning his vision momentarily over bright. James is still trembling though, eyes wide with something that almost looks like anger, and the footman is loitering looking entirely confused and far too curious. Thomas uses the hand on James’ shoulder to guide him on unsteady feet towards his study.

‘That would be my fault.’ The door clicks behind him and he pulls James to him, taking his hands and squeezing them firmly. ‘I requested for it to be done.’

James looks at him, baffled. ‘You didn’t think to ask me first?’

Thomas chooses to read the hardness of James’ voice as a lingering fright, rather than the rage it presents itself as. ‘I thought I would have time today. I didn’t realise things would work quite so efficiently.’

‘What?’

‘Well, there’s hardly a precedent for the admiralty getting things done with any speed, is there? I assumed we’d be able to discuss my intentions before Hennessey even received my letter.’

‘And your intentions are?’ There’s a heavy layer of disproval to James’ tone and it leaves Thomas stung. He bites the tip of his tongue before answering, unsure in the same way that caused him to act without consulting James in the first place.

‘I asked if I might borrow you for a period. A sabbatical of sorts in their eyes, to work on the proposal. Which is at least partially true. My father and brother have business in the city and wish to stay here. Miranda and I intend to visit the country while they do. I had hoped you would join us?’ It all comes out in a rush with barely a pause for breath. ‘I understand if you want to refuse now, though.’

‘Why didn’t you ask me earlier?’ James’ quite and gentle inquisition, devoid of any earlier hostility, is unexpected but beautifully welcome.

‘I didn’t want you to say no,’ Thomas half whispers.

‘I wouldn’t have done.’ James presses a fleeting kiss to Thomas knuckles and the nameless worry that’s been tight around Thomas’ heart for a long while releases its grip.

‘You’ll come then?’

 

**September 20.**

 

James aches in ways he never imagined could be possible from simply sitting down. He arches his back, hoping for the crack that never comes, and pulls a chair as close to the smouldering fire as possible and waits for his bones to dry out. Being able to afford to sit inside the stagecoach makes little difference to the overall discomfort, especially when the roof is leaking torrential rain down one’s back anyway, and James resolutely hates it just as much as he always has done.

‘James?’ The sound of Thomas’ voice, hushed against his ear, steadily wakes James from a sleep he hadn’t intended to fall into.

‘Good morning,’ Thomas murmurs, even though its late in the afternoon, and James can feel him smile against his cheek. James twists his neck to kiss Thomas, who is bent over the back of his chair, and finds himself inhaling on a sharp spike of pain instead.

‘Are you alright?’ Thomas asks, undue concern plain in his features.

‘Mm. Just stiff. The coach was luxurious as ever,’ he says, knowing that the fullness of his sarcasm will be lost on Thomas, who has never had to ride in a public carriage in his life.

‘You should have come with us.’

‘And play truant to a meeting with my superiors? I should have been so lucky. Anyway, you’re forgetting your chaise only just seats two.’

‘We could have pressed together. I’m sure we’d have fitted if one of us sat on the other.’ Thomas smirks and James laughs in a way that does more good in warming him than the fire. As if inspired by his words Thomas wanders around to settle himself in James’ lap before immediately pulling a face at him.

‘You’re wet.’

‘It’s raining.’

‘It’s unpleasant.’

‘I know.’

~

‘I’m afraid most of the house is still locked up at the moment, we only use the east wing when my father isn’t here.’ James follows Thomas down the sprawling corridors and thinks that it’s hardly the cramped conditions he’s making it out to be. ‘Up here.’ The staircase is tight and winding and James suspects that it’s more for the servants’ use than theirs. Thomas seems to catch his thoughts. ‘I only really spent time here as a child, old habits die hard,’ he says with a shrug. ‘Besides, all the rooms on this side are connected, yours is much further away from the main staircase than this one.’

‘I don’t mind,’ James says, for lack of anything else to say. For a moment his mind has become trapped thinking about a small, troublesome Thomas running around the back staircases to escape tutors. It seems so very different and yet unusually parallel to his own childhood spent loitering in backstreets to avoid shipmasters when his hands were too blistered to haul the ropes.

‘You’re in the green room.’ Thomas opens the door to what is indeed a very green room, full of deeply coloured drapes and intricate wall hangings. It’s undeniably old-fashioned compared to the London house; James wonders how often it’s actually used. ‘It’s hideous, I know. One day, if miracles happen, Freddie might convince my father to decorate.’

It’s the first time Thomas has referred to his brother with such a familial name and James is left pondering, not for the first time, the terms on which their relationship stands. It’s evident that they don’t see each other often, if at all, and yet James gets the sense that Thomas must care for him at least more than he does his father – although that says fairly little.

‘It’s…’ James starts and then trails off when he realises the only positive thing he has to say about his accommodation is that it’s better than his rented rooms at least, even if they both share peeling paint on the ceiling.

‘My room’s a little newer, so at least you won’t have to spend much time amongst all this.’

James has to stop himself from biting the inside of his lip in an oddly shy gesture. He’s under no pretences after all, and yet to hear it said out loud seems so intimately domestic that he’s struck by a sense of longing different to anything he’s experienced before. Thomas opens the door and leads James through a bathroom and dressing room into a much airier, bigger bedroom. James breaths an audible sigh of relief at the lack of tapestries.

There’s a view, too, of large parkland and distant sprawling forestry from the window and despite the hammering rain James is overcome with a desire to explore every part of it. Thomas must catch where his gaze has become fixed, because he opens the curtains further while wrapping an arm around James’ waist.

‘I used to spend days lost in those woods.’ He looks at James with an impish grin. ‘It terrified my nanny when I didn’t come back one evening. I’d found a badger hole I could fit inside and decided to stay there instead.’ Thomas trails off slightly and James senses there is more to the story, perhaps a less playful ending, but doesn’t ask. Instead he steps away from the window and starts stripping out of his still damp clothes before stopping suddenly.

‘Thomas.’

‘Yes?’

‘I haven’t anything to change into.’

Thomas raises an eyebrow and gestures at the bed. James laughs and lets Thomas kiss him, leaning up to press warmly into him. Thomas walks them backwards towards the bed, removing the rest of his clothes before starting on his own. When they’re both naked and kneeling on the bed, Thomas doesn’t move his touch any lower, only pushes James to lying and slots himself around him and continues to kiss him so deep and slow and tender that James’ mind ceases to know anything else. For once it doesn’t seem to matter that he doesn’t know how to give anything back.

~

James isn’t asleep, except between the warmth of Thomas’ chest and the gentle motions of the fingers in his hair, he almost is. In the quiet, the knock on the door seems almost thunderous. The fingers in his hair stop at the same time James’ heart does. He’s frozen, not knowing whether to run or hide and doing neither, he can hear Thomas’ heart even over the rushing in his own ears.

‘James?’ Thomas’ whisper is so small it barely exists. The knock sounds again.

‘Thomas?’ It must take both of them a moment to comprehend Miranda’s voice because neither answer immediately. ‘Thomas?’

‘Yes?’ James tries not to hear the shake in Thomas’ tone as he answers, relief late in dawning.

‘Oh.’ Miranda stops half way into the room, jaw setting open slightly, whatever she was going to say clearly forgotten. James watches as she takes in the scene before her, naked flesh and tangled limbs, intimacy half aborted in terror. ‘I’m not sure I heard you arrive, James.’

James is still too preoccupied with trying to steady his breathing to respond and he can hear Thomas doing the same next to him. Miranda stands before them, an unreadable expression at her lips and thinly veiled longing in her eyes. James fights the need to cover himself. It’s not as if she hasn’t seen him before and yet he suddenly feels stripped and exposed beyond just the physical. Next to him, Thomas shifts to sitting, worrying the edge of the bed sheet with the tips of his fingers. Miranda takes his hand. James succumbs and pulls the sheet over himself.

‘Love,’ Miranda says, and it sounds as if she is half talking to herself rather than them, ‘may be described generally as the love of the everlasting possession of the good?’

‘Plato?’ Thomas questions and his brow scrunches slightly in a way that makes James want to kiss it. ‘The truest love is a love of unending goodness.’

James’ mind reals as if blown about by a strong gale, uncertain of how and why a discussion of philosophy has started in such a perplexingly improper situation.

‘There is no shame in this,’ she says looking directly at James. He is suddenly reminded of the first time they spoke and the sudden unexpected surge of jealousy he had felt that she should get to know such goodness as Thomas so intimately. On reflection, James believes that even in that moment Miranda knew the inevitability of what was to grow between him and Thomas. Although he has known it, in a vague sense, for a long while, it is empowering and soothing to hear her speak her blessing over their relationship now.

‘Thank you,’ he says, and the way her whole being softens tells him she knew he needed to hear it.

‘It it hardly something you could evade.’

‘It or he?’ James says, a playful mirth in his voice. Miranda laughs. Thomas coughs and taps James’ shoulder.

‘I assume I’m being excluded from a joke about myself?’

‘A very flattering one though, darling,’ Miranda reassures, a hand on Thomas’ arm and a warm smile in her eyes.

‘Oh! What did you come in for?’ Thomas asks, being the first of them to remember that there must have been a reason for Miranda’s presence. Miranda shakes her head dismissively.

‘I was wondering if you had seen a book.’

‘Any book?’ Thomas teases and James can picture Miranda’s responding eye-roll despite the fact that his own eyes have closed against the slow, soft way Thomas has resumed running his fingers through his hair. He forces them open again, though, at the sound of whispering coming from behind him and twists in Thomas’ arms to fix him and Miranda with what he hopes is a hard stare.

‘Either include me, or be quiet and let me sleep.’ He knows they’ll see through the disgruntled tone to be nothing but put on for a reaction but uses it anyway.

‘We were wondering if you might want a proper tour of the house?’ Thomas says with a kiss to James’ temple. ‘Although if you’d rather sleep...?’

James is already sitting up more, alert to the light mischief in Thomas’ voice, although what it could possibly pertain to he can only dread.

‘I would be glad of one. Except you’re forgetting all my clothes are downstairs and wet. I’m not sure the staff would take so well to me walking around like this as you do.’

Thomas and Miranda laugh so hard one of them, and James honestly can’t tell who, snorts slightly. This sets off a full fifteen minutes of giggling between all three of them as they empty Thomas’ dressing room, holding various items up against James, each seeming more gaudy than the last.

‘Dear God Thomas, do you have no normal clothes?’

‘They look perfectly fine on me!’ Thomas replies, as bemused as he is amused.

‘It’s your hair,’ Miranda exclaims after three more waistcoats have been discarded to the floor. ‘It’s too orange and nothing matches it because everything here is too bright.’

James scoffs but Thomas is already running back into the bedroom. When he reappears he’s holding a wig in hand, mercifully white but evidently not quite as fashionable as his own.

‘Problem solved.’

James waits patiently as Thomas hands him a new selection of garments and Miranda ties his hair so it’ll sit unseen beneath the wig. When they’re finished and he’s dressed he allows himself to glance in the mirror and stops, caught by his own alien reflection. He wonders if, in another life, he would actually look like this.

‘It’s – I look…’

There’s a moment when they all search for the right word.

‘Horrific?’ Miranda volunteers. ‘Awful?’

‘Wrong,’ Thomas decides.

James can’t stop staring at the foreign man looking back at him from the mirror.

‘Take it off?’ he asks, and when they both nod in unison he sheds the offending layers like a snake ridding themselves of dead skin. In shirtsleeves and breeches he finally feels able to breath as himself again, even if they are too tight and a little short.

~

There’s a moment, as they run down abandoned corridors that should still be closed up, in which Thomas is suddenly a child again, tripping over his own feet and stiffening giggles into loud silence. Ahead of him, Miranda and James cut silhouetted figures in evening light flittering in from behind shutters, illuminated and glowing.

Thomas stops, overwhelmed by the sight of curls trickling down Miranda’s back untamed, at James’ loose shirt billowing around his thighs and the way she grips his arm as they laugh, low and melodic. He considers that there is no conceivable way another man in England could be more content than he is right now.

~

The ballroom is so still and musty, reeking of disuse, that for a moment Thomas regrets unlocking the door. Except as he takes the boards away from the windows and casts light over the ornate, if decaying, interior he hears James’ gasp and feels a slow warmth spread through him.

‘It’s beautiful,’ James whispers.

‘It was my Mother’s.’ Thomas swallows and his throat feels thick. ‘It was the only place in the house she said was truly hers. After she passed it was shut up. You can imagine my father holds little interest in dancing.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Freddie and I used to sneak up there -’ Thomas gestures to a balcony overlooking the floor ‘and watch the dancing in our nightclothes. My mother was always at the centre of it, dominating the room. She was magnificent.’

‘Are you -’ Thomas watches as James cuts himself off and chews at his lip for a moment. ‘Do you care for your brother?’ He also watches as James winces as he says it and James suspects he didn’t intend to be so blunt.

Thomas shakes his head a little and then shrugs. ‘We were close, as children. When my mother died I made every effort to model myself like her and he didn’t. I think the day he became Alfred Hamilton the second was the day I stopped caring.’

James’ hand twitches, and Thomas laces his fingers through his before they can become a fist.

‘I have made my peace,’ he says softly and kisses James’ cheek.

Across the room Miranda half-twirls her way towards them, holding out a hand.

‘A dance, My Lord?’

‘It would be my honour, My Lady.’ Thomas can feel the edges of his mouth twitch in betrayal as he tries to keep a straight face.

Miranda hums under her breath and Thomas counts out loud and they manage about half the steps before he treads on her toes, turns the wrong way and she gets tangled under his arm and they collapse laughing.

‘I inherited nothing of my mother’s elegance, as you can see,’ Thomas calls to James, who is watching with such bright joy Thomas thinks his chest might cave in. ‘Miranda, though, is actually a very good dancer.’

‘James?’ Miranda questions.

‘I – I don’t…’

‘You can’t be any worse than Thomas.’ Thomas steps on her foot again lightly, but very deliberately, at that. He gestures for James to take his place, though, because it’s true and retires to the foot of the staircase.

James, for all his protestations, guides Miranda with a natural ease. Even when Thomas stops tapping a beat with his foot for them they move with a fluidity as if an unseen tether were pulling them together and then apart again, toying with their bodies in effortless motion. Thomas watches, transfixed.

~

The warmth of Miranda’s body as it brushes against James’ is nothing compared to heat on his neck where he can feel Thomas’ eyes burning into him. The more conscious he becomes of it the less he can keep count of their steps, falling behind Miranda slightly. Just as he falters, an arm curls around his waist and he feels Thomas press against his back.

‘May I?’

‘Of course,’ Miranda says and as James is about to step back he suddenly finds her touch replaced with Thomas’, open palms pressed together and eyes locking.

‘Shall we?’ Thomas murmurs and James feels his heart lodge in his throat, breath stolen by  _ something _ as Thomas sways towards him.

They don’t move to any particular rhythm and the dance is not one that exists beyond these walls. Even when apart their fingertips keep stretched against each other’s, not breaking contact. Neither know the women’s part and without it the dance becomes a loop of circles that grow closer and closer together until James is held tight in Thomas’ arms and they’re left spinning slowly in the centre of the room, reflected infinitely in the mirrors on every wall.

At some point Miranda must have left, because the room is utterly silent except for the shuffling of their feet and the softness of their breath. James feels as if he is floating in a myriad of sensation, so removed from time and place he finds he is unable to distinguish the end of his limbs for the beginning of Thomas.

‘I love you,’ Thomas says in his ear and James stills, a spark igniting in him, the rushing urgent need to say it back stopping only at his tongue, where he finds his mouth will not move. ‘I love you.’ Thomas says again and James temporarily pushes guilt away, finds sanctuary from shame in the wonderful, singing feeling pouring through his body.

Thomas kisses him and James knows, with absolute certainty, that he would weather anything to keep this love.

 

**September 23.**

 

When Sunday comes, James wakes to the sound of turning pages and finds Thomas already dressed, if still lounged out on the bed next to him.

‘Miranda and I are going to church. It’s, um, sort of expected. Besides. We quite like to go.’ Thomas kisses James’ cheek. ‘You don’t have to come.’

James considers accepting Thomas’ gracious offer and spending the morning in bed instead, except he finds himself curious.

~

Amongst cool stone, old leather and steady voices James finds the same kind of peace conjured by a ramshackle dingy in shallow waters and is pleasantly surprised by it.

There’s been chaplains on ships, of course, and the occasional formal service attended as part of his duty but James is as unfamiliar with the grace he finds here as a city man would be with the tides. He mumbles his way through the common prayers, uncertain of the words, and is relieved when Thomas elects not to sing the hymns because it gives him an excuse to stay silent too. He hears very little of the sermon, instead sinking into the comfortable serenity of the place, and when Thomas, under the cover of an open bible, curls his fingers around James’ it feels, strangely, as if he is being returned home after a long time at sea. It horrifies him.

~

Later, under a canopy of trees with his hand in Thomas’ as they walk, James wonders aloud how he can stand it, embracing religion even with the knowledge of what it thinks of them.

‘The very nature of men is to be fallible. Surely that is the underlying crux of the entire bible? That no matter how we strive to be as Jesus was we are already doomed by Eve and the apple?’

‘It isn’t enough.’ Frustration and bitter anger bite at James’ tongue and the tips of his teeth.  ’It can’t be enough, to be pitied as the sinner and loved but only for the price of renouncing everything we are.’

Thomas squeezes his hand.

‘Perhaps it is entirely possible that those who condemn us have simply failed to understand God’s will in this instance. The God I serve is one of love, of peace, and of acceptance. I would denounce those who see it differently, who would falsely cry loud with the voice of hate in His name.’

James understands Thomas’ argument, except to agree would be to accept a reconciliation he isn’t sure he’s ready to make yet.

‘It is no good for rulers if the people they rule cherish ambitions for themselves or form strong bonds with one another.’ He twists the conversation, instead.

‘The Symposium. ‘He who knows love walks not in darkness,’’ Thomas says with a surprised smile. ‘Plato makes a good point. It’s entirely plausible that we are told to believe in sins that don’t exist simply for the convenience of those who control us. Where did you read that?’

‘I found a pile of translations on your desk,’ James says, sheepishly. Thomas ducks his head shyly, much to James’ confusion.

‘They were going to be a present for you, when I finish it.’

‘I’ll be sure to act surprised,’ James says, a flushed feeling like drinking too much mulled wine creeping through him. ‘You don’t have to give me things, though, I’m hardly your wife.’

‘And thank goodness for that. I’m not sure you’d look any better in Miranda’s skirts than in my wig. I enjoy courting you, though.’

James instinctively bites down on his reply, the familiar urge to stay silent in self-preservation rearing its head. Then Thomas winks at him and at the way he’s looking at James as if nothing else around them matters James lets the words spill off his tongue in one rushed breath.

‘I’m already yours.’

~

It begins to rain again as they walk back towards the house, heavy drops that soak through their clothes and into skin. Thomas tips his head back into the storm, water clinging to eyelashes and James’ chest swells at the sight, their laughter blending with the swirling first rumble of thunder. It’s only when lightning flashes, hot and white, on the horizon that they begin to hurry their steps a little.

~

‘Here.’ Thomas slides James’ wet waistcoat off him, hands hot in contrast to James’ skin even through his shirt. There’s a fire lit in their bedroom, though, and James’ shiver has nothing to do with chill. He stands still, breath catching in his throat as Thomas slowly and deliberately strips him of his clothing, hanging each item carefully over the fireguard. When he’s stood in only his breeches, Thomas kneels to the floor and James’ eyes flutter involuntarily closed. There’s a moment of still anticipation before James feels Thomas’ fingers at his buttons twisting them open with agonisingly steady restraint. When he opens his eyes Thomas is gazing up at him with an awe James can’t possibly merit.

Thomas doesn’t move, just keeps watching James as if waiting for something. James can feel his breath against his hipbone, though, and it’s coming shallow and fast.

‘Please,’ James whispers, voice lost with want.

Thomas presses his cheek into James’ side and reaches for his hand, fingers skirting up his wrist and tugging him down to kneel opposite him. Thomas’ other hand dances around his own throat, skittering over the knot in his necktie but not removing it. His fingers rest against bare skin just above and James throbs with the need to touch, to explore the skin below. He wills his body to still and to wait for the terms to be set, trusting in Thomas’ lead more than his own wayward, wild will.

‘Take it,’ Thomas says, and it sounds like  _ take me. _

Something inside James breaks, the reluctance formed of a fear of pushing too hard, of needing too much, snaps and he lurches forward. With the invisible bounds holding his hands still gone he frantically touches and takes, desperate for every inch of Thomas’ skin. He mouths hungrily at Thomas’ neck, making quick work of his clothes, an angry, beautiful bruise blooming below his tongue. Thomas gasps so loud it’s almost a shout when James experimentally grazes his teeth over the mark, pressing in lightly.

‘James, James, James,’ he’s chanting over and over again, head tipped back, eyes closed. When James leans back, removing his touch for a moment to admire the scene before him, Thomas shudders violently, whimpering slightly at the loss of contact. He grasps for James’ hand, drawing it back to him.

‘Touch me. Please James. I want you, I always want you.’

It shouldn’t come as such a shock, and yet Thomas’ words seem like a revelation James has been needing to hear for a long while. He leans back in to kiss Thomas again, slower this time as if he has all the time in the world to loose himself in the feeling. His tongue flicks out and Thomas parts his lips pliantly, as if granting access to every part of him. James explores languorously, swallowing the moans that tumble out from some deep part of Thomas like steady, crashing waves.

It’s only when Thomas tips his back fractionally to catch his breath and James shifts to follow him that he realises how achingly, desperately hard he is. His cock brushes against Thomas’ and the touch, even through fabric, sends a jolt of need through him like fire. His hips jerk up involuntarily, searching for contact, at the same time Thomas’ do and he finds himself half laughing suddenly. Thomas is smiling fondly and James presses their foreheads together, catching his smile between his lips and kisses him sweetly, despite the urgency with which their fingers are scrabbling to undo buttons.

Thomas’ cock is as red and wet as his lips are and when James wraps his fingers around the head, he cants forward into his touch, mouth falling slack against James’. James twists his fingers, delicately flicking a nail across the tip of Thomas’ cock, collecting the fluid he finds there and this time Thomas does shout. James lets his grip go loose as he lifts the bead of pre-come on his finger to Thomas’ lips, catching them between his own to revel in the joint tastes. Thomas’ hips jerk forward a few times desperately, his eyes screwed shut in frustration when he finds no resistance or relief.

‘What do you need?’ James whispers in his ear, where Thomas has dropped his head to his shoulder. His voice seems to crack with his own arousal. Thomas’ hands scrabble at James’ waist, trying to pull him closer. ‘Would you like to fuck me?’

‘Please,’ Thomas gasps and he sounds wrecked, wanton and debauched. Then he pauses, a moment of lucidity breaking through the desire. ‘I haven’t any oil.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ James says, because he wouldn’t have been able to stop now, even before Thomas looked so mournful at the idea. He presses two of his fingers into Thomas’ mouth. Thomas sucks, warm and wet and James can’t stop the moan that falls out of him when Thomas’ tongue twists around them obediently.

James knows it’s not going to be enough, it’s going to hurt a little and be sore tomorrow, yet the rough drag of spit-wet fingers as he opens himself up feels like heaven. Thomas watches entranced, mouth open and breathing heavily. James arches and twists slightly to give him a better view, putting on a show even as his own eyes close against the feeling of being stretched wide open.

‘May I?’ Thomas says and when James forces his eyes open Thomas’ own fingers are resting against his lips, waiting as he asks permission. The thought makes James’ cock jump, thick arousal swimming through him. He leans forward and licks along Thomas’ hand, savouring the open moan Thomas gives in response. The addition of Thomas’ fingers alongside his own is tight and full and somehow still not enough, even as they move in tandem. James sinks down as Thomas curls a finger and a fresh spike of arousal shoots through him. Thomas does it again and again and James can feel his legs shaking, cock wet against his stomach.

‘Stop, stop.’ He pants into Thomas’ neck. It’s too much, too soon and he feels like he might die if he doesn’t get more. Thomas’s expression paints concern even through a layer of need but James doesn’t bother reassuring him, only pushes him back onto his elbows and climbs onto his lap, bracketing his thighs around his hips. The moment their cocks rub against each other as James moves has Thomas’ breath stuttering shallow and fast. James does it again, deliberately, and feels Thomas’ nails dig into the skin high on his thigh.

‘James. I need, would you -’ Thomas is shifting his hips fractionally, seeking friction and James runs a palm along him until Thomas is writhing under his touch. He places steadying kisses along his collarbones which calm Thomas right until James moves lower to suck at a nipple. When he pulls away and blows cool breath on it Thomas’ back arches so much James has to put an arm around him to catch him.

‘Please James.’ Thomas whines. It’s an unusual sound to hear from him and James loves it, marvelling in the fact that he’s been the one to draw it out of him, to dissemble Thomas to such a state.

Thomas’ fingers find James’ cock, tightening around it as if to remind him that he is no less hard than Thomas is, throbbing with it. James positions himself, catches Thomas’ lower lip between his own and sinks down onto him. It burns with a stinging sensation, despite how prepared James was, and James fucks himself through it, the knife-edge of pain fading to pleasure fast amongst their dual moans. James matches each of Thomas’ thrusts, driving him deeper into him, taking more and more each time. The feeling is sublime and paired with the knowledge that this is allowed, wanted even, James knows he won’t last long.

Thomas’ hand glides over him, pulling him so close to the limit of sensation. He catches Thomas in an open, frantic kiss, a desperate meeting of mouths as he feels the familiar build in his stomach, a tightening that begins in his toes and floods through him until he’s pulsing into Thomas’ hand, his orgasm turning his vision hazy even as he continues to fuck down onto Thomas. He registers as Thomas’ hands fly to his waist, the glorious overstimulation as Thomas continues to thrust into him once, twice more before crying out with a broken sob that somehow still sounds like elation. When James’ legs finally begin to give out, Thomas catches him, pulling him to him with sticky, boneless energy.

‘I love you. I love you,’ James whispers against Thomas’ mouth, because he’s already bared so much of himself, what’s one more thing?

 

**Epilogue.**

 

Winter passes in a haze of books, ink and skin found in long mornings, late nights and endless space in between. It is full of blankets and warm wine and long limbs curled around freckles. James finally sees Thomas drunk and discovers it is possible for a person to be both deeply philosophical and unstoppably giggly all at once. Thomas takes James to a Molly House and watches him discover that they are not alone, that in the shadows there is wonder and goodness still.

There are endless kisses and delicate touches and desperate exploration until they know each other’s bodies better than their own and still there is more to discover.

In spring James leaves for Nassau and Thomas concedes, for the first time in his life, to stay behind. James comes back back sun kissed, copper bearded and with lips set in disappointment. Thomas tells him to let it wait, he has waited three months and will no longer.

The unthinkable happens.

James Flint is born at sea. He is not a god, nor a monster, and in the end the sea takes him back but it does not win.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://ceraunos.tumblr.com/) come and scream about these boys with me. Or listen to me scream about whatever I'm currently writing. 
> 
> I'm also accepting black sails prompts over there too. x


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